D. Nurkse

Flatlands

1In that hotel, the mirror was naked.I had never seen such a wavering cloud.I ran my fingers along the glass.It burned me slightly.

I didn’t know who you are.Just how to suffer, how to pass time(by counting), and a few jokeswhose appeal was a forgotten punch line.

I poured you a cup of black wine.It trembled. We could hear the trucksroaring north and south—we were alonein a huge city. August inchedsideways through the blinds.

2I didn’t know twilight would be naked.The bells would be naked. Not knowingwould be naked.

3We are told, only the moment is real,all that exists exists in the moment,but who knew how to get there?We tried door after dooralong those elm-lined streetsand heard just chimesin triple-locked apartments.

Then we found it. It is here.Though we are fadingall our actions last forever,even fumbling at a button—

not in these wordsbut in the night sky hiddenat the center of the last period.